


The Douchepirate's Tale

by Kathar



Series: Shameless Kilt Smut [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Kilts, M/M, Renaissance Faires, not quite a mission fic, not quite a pwp, not quite public sex, shameless kilt smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint agreed to an undercover op manning the archery booth at a Renaissance Festival, he’d been missing one vital piece of information.</p><p>Phil was going to be undercover, too. And he was going to be wearing a kilt.</p><p>Turn about, as they say, is hard on the knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Douchepirate's Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Utilitarian](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476715) by [Kathar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar). 



> Yeah, technically this is a sequel to Utilitarian. If you didn’t read the first one, here’s what happened: Clint wore a kilt. Phil appreciated the kilt. Vigorously. There, you’re entirely caught up.

"Three arrows a dollar? You gotta be kidding me-- what a ripoff," said the entitled douchebag, his voice cutting like a buzzsaw through the sultry afternoon air and Clint's concentration. "You know, the booth over in the Enchanted Grove is doing four a dollar."

Clint froze and waited to respond until he'd schooled his face into something that merely promised heck to pay, instead of the version with the double hockey sticks. The afternoon had been long and hot, full of minor aggravations from the sticky-fingered snot-nosed patrons and their children coming around to fondle his arrows, to the sweat currently collecting at the waistband of his tights. Nevertheless, he was a professional. He was going to act… professionally. That meant not preemptively slapping people across the face, no matter how clear it was they were gonna act like jerks.

Or so Phil Coulson, the Agent in Charge of their current undercover op had told him. “No punching. Keep it under control, Barton,” was what he’d said.

Clint sighed and reminded himself he’d volunteered for this damn op.

"Well, m'lord," he said sweetly, turning as he did, "you're welcome to drag yourself back across the festival grounds if getting the extra shaft is worth it."

And then he got himself fully turned around towards the wide entrance to the archery booth and the preemptively-disgruntled customer staring petulantly at him, and he started to cough violently. It was the only way to cover up the “holy shit” that tried to tumble out of his mouth.

The man standing in the sunlight just outside the booth's awning looked like he already had a shaft up his ass, from the dubious way he eyed Clint and his humble little set-up. He also had clearly never met a mead he didn't like, given his overly-wobbly demeanor and the casual way his tankard half-tilted out of his grip and off to the side. Actually, that was probably a wise decision, since Clint wasn't sure he was steady enough to keep from dribbling across his chin and shirt front otherwise. Or maybe he already had-- damp tufts of chest hair were peaking through the lacing at his neck, and both sweat and mead were equally likely. He had gone for the puffy- shirt look like so many other the other weekday suits who came to the Fest to stare at the sea of corseted cleavage, get drunk, and gnaw turkey legs. Clint wondered if he’d had to buy the shirt, or if he’d had an unfortunate Cure period in his youth.

But the man's open neck and generally debauched air weren't why Clint had nearly choked on an expletive, no sir. Life would have been a lot less complicated if that was all. No, the cause of Clint's current wave of despair was the black utilikilt the man was currently absolutely _rocking_. He had calves that could have been carved by a glacier, knees that just begged to be spread, ankles that... well ankles that were hidden under a set of pointy-toed black leather boots criss-crossed with studded straps, the kind that absolutely demanded come all over them.

Clint had no fucking idea how he was supposed to complete his mission with _that_ in front of him. When he’d said “keep it under control, Barton,” the Agent in Charge had clearly forgotten to mention a very important fact: himself. Why anyone at SHIELD had ever thought it was a good idea to have him and Coulson do undercover work at a Renaissance Festival Clint didn’t know-- it wasn't like they hadn't seen him and Clint take their covers and method act them right off a cliff before or anything.

(No, that wasn't metaphorical. In their defense, it was a small cliff, and the van's airbags were excellent.)

Clint figured he’d probably been seduced by the idea of Coulson in tights and maybe a codpiece, but the reality turned out to be much, much worse. Coulson was, in fact, succeeding where all the other weekend lordlings tried and failed-- he had managed to turn Renaissance Festival Suburban Pirate Celt into fuck-me-now sexy.

Clint bit back the urge to whine. The only way he was gonna survive this at all was to live and breathe his cover for the next ten minutes, and pretend it wasn’t Coulson there at all. Just some frilly-shirted motherfucker with a sleazy leer. No deviations. No exceptions. No daydreams. No--

"No," Couls-- Douchebag-- said, and Clint’s train of thought jacknifed. Oh. Right. Clint had essentially told him to go fuck himself.

He frowned generally around the little booth, from the wood planked gallery for customers to line up at to the bales of straw thirty feet back in the booth, stuck here and there with cheap little arrows with tattered fletching.  His examination landed on Clint-- and then he frowned all the way from the top of Clint's head, slowly, slowly down the crushed velvet tunic covering his chest, his broad belt, his tights….  Where his eyes lingered before gliding back upwards.

"Too far to walk," he elaborated, still looking slightly sulky, and finally brought his eyes back up to meet Clint's.  "Whatever. Here."

He thrust a fiver at Clint and, when Clint didn't take it immediately, reached forward and stuffed it in his wide belt, fingers firm as he thrust against Clint's hip.

"There," he said, evidently pleased with himself.

Clint looked down at his belt then back up, unsure whether the words that wanted to tumble out of his lips were going to be English-- or any intelligible language, really. Douchebag smirked back at him, like he _knew_ he was hot enough to get away with being an unbelieveable asshole.

Which he probably did, honestly.

"What's that for?" Clint managed finally, "token of appreciation?" There. Ah, yeah, there was his own assholishness, rising to the occasion at last.

"Right," the douchepirate snorted. "Arrows. A bow. You know, to shoot at things. This is an archery booth, that's not false advertising, right?" He looked around at the little shooting arcade like he wasn't sure whether or not he'd gotten to the pink elephants stage of his afternoon a little early. The place was currently vacant except for a snot-nosed tween in a ninja costume and pirate hat, who was just finishing shooting his arrows at the wall of straw, half-watched by a parent with a cup of wine in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Clint had been more and more aggressive driving people off as go time got nearer, but the kid had sad eyes like an owl-puppy hybrid. He’d caved.

Clint waited a moment to see if Coulson was going to slip out of character enough to comment on that, but all he got was a sneer.

"You _do_ have bows and arrows, right?"

"Uh," Clint tried, fighting the dual urges to shut him up with a left hook to his face or a tongue down his throat, "yeah. Hold on. Try this one."

Coulson's hand brushed his as he reached for the little blue bow and Clint felt it all the way down to his toes. Goddamnit, no. Flirting was one thing, flirting was a pre-negotiated part of the cover (and it got him better tips-- or maybe that was how short his tunic was). Hell, checking Coulson out was fine to do-- Coulson himself was not.

There was a mission on, after all. Live comm in his ear and no discreet way to turn it off and a mark to watch for. (Anyway, Coulson would probably be insufferably smug if Clint just gave in, dropped to his knees, and licked up his inner thigh right out here in front of God and reenactors and everything.)

No. Not Coulson. Drunken pirate douchebag. Drunken pirate douchebag _daytrader_ , even, if Clint was remembering their briefing correctly. Be. The. Cover.

Clint let go of the bow.

"Kinda small." Douchey McDreamboat dangled the bow between his thumb and two fingers. "You don't have anything... more generous?"

Someone sniggered on the comms.

"Sure you can you handle it?" Clint shot back, and got a nasty smirk in return.

"I can handle anything you give me."

Clint swapped out the bow for a larger magenta number, shoving five bundles of arrows at him at the same time. The Douchepirate Roberts nearly dropped them, then nearly dropped his tankard in an effort to hold on to them one-armed. The zing of triumph Clint felt was as intense as it was cheap.

"Careful there," he drawled. "I can be more than a handful."

Honestly, the miffed huff he got in return shouldn't have set Clint's toes tingling the way it did. Fuck the mission anyway; Clint could multi-task. He could multi-task _so damn well._

And Agent Coulson hadn’t ever said his _cover_ couldn’t get handsy.

"Let me get you, uh, in position," Clint said. In what he felt was a magnanimous gesture, he scooped the arrows out of Coulson's-- the douchebag’s-- arm and set them along the rail, maybe brushing a bit more than necessary (and oh god that fucking shirt was so soft he could feel the chest hair beneath it).

"Where do you want me?" the douchepirate asked, sounding maybe a tiny bit more like an actual human instead of a jerkwad with gorgeous gams. Clint reached out, grabbed his arms, and pointed Black Jack Douchebag at the target-- and maybe he used his hands a bit more than necessary, but god, that fucking shirt was a tease and those forearms were freckled and gorgeous and Clint _needed_ to get a feel of the biceps hiding under all that excess puff.

"Just trust me," Clint murmured, letting himself linger.

"I don't need manhandling," the guy complained-- and he was really, clearly, absolutely _wrong_ about that. And knew it, if the way he shivered under Clint's hands was any indication. "Just let me shoot."

"Show me what you got," Clint told him.

"Just watch," the guy said. And then he set down his mead on the rail, so that he could use both his hands, lined up his arrow, wriggled his ass as he got lined up-- and flopped his elbow back like a goddamn rubber chicken.

Clint sighed.

"You're gonna be the death of me, boss," he muttered.

"Hm," said Coulson, headed right back into douchebag territory, and then he let the arrow fly. It... dribbled to a sad halt ten feet from the target. From the far side of the arcade, the kid in the ninja pirate costume (which Clint was totally stealing for the next SHIELD Halloween party) snorted.

"Yeah, you really know your way around a shaft," Clint drawled, and had the pleasure of seeing Phil go red, all the way down his neck and into the floofy collar of this shirt. "Why don't I, uh, help you with your stance."

"Jesus," a voice on comms swore. Then, "sorry."

"Hrmph." Coulson was frowning at the targets tacked up to the straw now, trying to focus on them through what was probably meant to be a meady haze. Anyone watching them would have thought so. When he turned to look at at Clint though, his gaze was a damn sight sharper, hitting it's target in Clint's crotch with admirable steadiness and lingering a bit as he pursed his lips in contemplation. Clint felt like grumbling at him to “keep it under control” his own damn self.

How the hell did Coulson expect Clint to stay in character if he was gonna go all eyefucky like that?

"Yeah, alright," Coulson said in the end, ungraciously enough despite his leisurely perusal of Clint's good bits. Clint thought for one brief moment of drawing it out, but time was short and the mark was due any moment-- and he knew his cue when he heard it.

Anyway he had permission now to roam free, and he sidled up behind Coulson-- behind his douchebag of a customer, come on Clint-- as he fitted another arrow to his bow, sliding one hand beneath his wrist and another under the opposite elbow.

"Your draw is off, let me get it up right," Clint purred, cuddling in close, and then gave in and whispered "a kilt, Coulson? Are you for real?"

"You might remember," Coulson murmured back at him, lips curving into a smile, "that you brought this on yourself." And then he shifted his hip minutely against Clint, in the service of a better... _stance._ "Dart's in my belt pouch; grab it while you're down there, huh?"

"Down--" Clint started, and then it hit him-- on the toe, in fact.

"Oops," Phil drawled, as Clint sighed and bent to pick up the arrow. "Not usually this clumsy."

Why the hell had Clint ever thought he would be able to handle this op?  No, wait, he knew, he knew very goddamn well. The enthusiastic stirring in his tights made it damn hard to lie to himself. He’d been letting Downstairs Clint make the decisions again.

Downstairs Clint turned out to be bad at deciding things, and it was gonna be a miracle if Clint managed to keep control while crouched down in a position that gave him a sightline right up Phil's skirt.

A wiser man would have limited contact. Clint was not that wiser man on his best day, never mind now. Usually, he could count on Phil for that. _Usually._ And Phil did hold himself fairly still during the retrieval of the arrow, and managed not to do more than twitch as Clint reached up to slide the tranquilizer dart out of Phil's rather incongruous, hip-slung sporran, even though it somehow ended up also involving way more up close and personal contact with Phil's calf and thigh area than Clint thought was really professional.

And yeah Phil had to share the blame there, since he tilted his hip midway through in a way that left uh, little to... well, little to the imagination but a whole lot of little, so to speak. Clint retaliated by taking his time, affixing the dart to the shaft of the arrow while still doubled over, refusing to bend his knees. He could nearly feel his ass smolder from the heat of Phil's gaze.

Holy fuck the mark better get there _fast_ before they both burst into flames.

"Dropped this?" Clint asked as he snapped upright, twirling the arrow idly and holding it out to Phil.

"Guess so," Phil said, then paused as the comm clicked.

"Mark's on his way," said Agent Reade in their ears, "On your seven o'clock, in the red and black doublet with the Bartholomew Cubbins hat and a milkmaid hanging off him."

Clint blinked and looked at Phil, trying to figure out how to signal "I have no idea what the hell that means" in a discreet manner.

"Coming along on my left," Phil murmured, jerking his head over his shoulder, and Clint turned and followed and, well _oh_.

If "Bartholomew Cubbins hat" meant "Robin Hood hat with an ostrich ass’s worth of plumes in increasingly violent shades of red and white" then yes, yes he did get what Reade meant. The milkmaid was fairly identifiable as well, an overblown blonde wearing crinkled muslin in a very '90s-meets-Baroque way. They paraded along kinda diagonal to the booth, about to cross near the far corner, already stumbling a little.

The milkmaid was a bit of a shock; the guy was supposed to be alone. He was also supposed to come in; the whole damned elaborate thing was based on his obsession with medieval weaponry. Clearly, he'd found another diversion for the day. Well, damn. This called for a slight change of plans.

"Your elbow's still real low," Clint told Phil, turning back to him and slipping his hand up Phil's bicep, hoping he'd just go with it. "You really need to lever it up."

"I know my way around a shaft," Phil pouted, and man his character was going from annoyingly hot to just plain annoying fast.

"Looking forward to seeing it," Clint said, pitching his voice to be heard, "but you gotta let me guide you."

He jerked on Phil's arm, and was rewarded with a glare.

"Get your hands off me, I'm fucking _fine_ ," Phil sneered, his voice raising. "You're making it worse." He slewed out of Clint's grasp, still holding the bow and arrow, which he'd drawn, and trying to flounce away. "Some teacher you are, bet you can't hit the broad side of a--"

"Fuck, fuck, you're gonna shoot the ninja--" Clint shouted, and made a grab for his shoulder, spinning Phil with one hand and grabbing the bow with the other.

"Get _off!"_ Phil cried as Clint blew the word _fire_ in his ear.

Phil let go of the string.

The next moment a terrified ten year old ninja was staring at them, pirate hat on the ground behind him next to the cell phone his mother had dropped, both of them covered with her wine. In the distance, Bartholomew Cubbins was blinking down at the arrow that had glanced off his cheek, one hand raised to the abraded skin.

His milkmaid began to shriek.

"Tranq delivered. Go," Phil muttered to his comm, before turning to Clint.

 "Goddamnit, look what you made me do!" he yelled.

And then Cubbins fell, his hat seeming to hang in the air for one spectacular moment before following him.

Everything after that was a bit of a blur, Clint going through the motions of horrified (and no longer horny) vendor and Phil doing his best drunk lawyer routine.  Helpful strangers and festival medics swirled around them in some kind of complicated dance, tidying away bow, arrow, ninja, milkmaid, and a still unconscious-Cubbins with ruthless efficiency.

Eventually a very nice, very apologetic, very _firm_ young woman in a drab bodice and skirt pulled Clint and Phil to the back of the booth, explaining that she was festival staff and they needed to _talk_. She gave the distinct impression of Management, despite her rather anachronistically-bared shoulders.

Phil blustered all the way back, voice echoing off the low tent walls, and he didn't stop until she'd gotten them into the deserted break room behind the straw bales-- really just a section of tent and planking walled off by a fence on one side and some more straw bales on the other-- and pulled the tent curtain closed behind them.

"Sitrep, Agent Reade," he said then, and Reade flippin’ _curtseyed_.

Clint fought back a laugh, and the urge to do something like it himself. Phil'd shed the drunk asshole the moment he came in, and put Agent Coulson back on. And, well, the sight of Agent Coulson in a kilt was bringing Clint's libido right back up to full steam.

"He's in the van with Nguyen and Dolarhyde and we're taking him in now, sir." Reade told him, thankfully oblivious to Clint's sudden inability to breathe. "We've taken his, um, his associate back to the base"-- by which she meant the fake information booth SHIELD agents had been staffing all day-- "and Munoz will make sure she gets sent to the wrong hospital at least twice. We need to finish disposing of the other civilians then we'll run a last sweep through here."

"All right," Phil said, satisfied, "Sounds like you've got us all handled. If anyone asks, you sent us out the back way to go wait for management. We'll stay here until you're wrapped in case of trouble, then extract ourselves." He waved her away and leaned back against the straw bale wall, turning to Clint with a smile and a wink.

"Nothing to do but wait?" Clint asked, leaning in next to him and letting the straw scratch his cheek. Phil nodded, licking his lips idly and watching Clint with a faint half-smile, clearly settling in and not that inclined to talk.

Pity, that. Clint could have used the distraction.

"You wore a kilt," Clint tried next, searching for something to prevent him from falling into a libido feedback loop from the fact that Phil was here, next to him, looking half debauched and all danger and with nothing on underneath a few pleats of canvas skirt that would be far too easy to push aside.

"It fit the cover," Phil told him, serene.

"I didn't think you'd ever do it, though," Clint said, feeling obscurely injured. "You seemed kind of pissed off when I did it."

That had been for a mission too, back in Portland, where Clint'd been... had been.... Never mind why Clint had been there, Clint couldn't remember just at the moment, because there was straw tickling Phil's bare throat and making him squirm and it was shorting out Clint's brain.

"There were reasons for that, Barton. It seemed kind of gratuitous at the time," Phil said, removing the offending straw and allowing Clint to think again.

It had _been_ kind of gratuitous at the time, the kilt. Especially the way Clint had worn it, or rather flaunted it like a red flag in front of a bull.

"Yeah well, it did what it was supposed to," he grumbled.

(And it had-- maybe even a little too well. Clint had a new appreciation of the term _ravished_ after that.)

"I admit, I revised my opinion of them," Phil agreed, cat-smug.

“Did you?” Clint managed, even though he really wanted to ask if Phil was “revising his opinion” about not having sex on live ops, because jesus fuck he looked like he was about to have Clint for a snack.

"In fact, I'm revising my opinion again now,” Phil purred, “this is very comfortable. Breezy." He wriggled his hips in further-- and look, Clint knew that wasn't a thing Phil would ever do in the middle of an op, even one that was nearly wrapped, but damnit he'd done it, all right? There was no other word for it.

Maybe it was time for Clint to revise his opinion that Phil'd dropped character, because that was a real douchepirate move, right there.

"How long till the coast is clear?" Clint rasped, and Agent Reade's voice, somewhat muffled, crackled to life in his ear.

"Another ten or fifteen, Agent Barton."

"Damnit. I hate waiting."

"Patience, Agent Barton," Phil purred. "I've heard it's a virtue."

Clint glared at him. Phil preened a little and settled more firmly against the straw, which rustled as his shoulders dug into it. With a final smirk Clint's way, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, exposing the long tan line of his throat and letting his shirt front fall open even further to expose his collarbone and... _fuck it._

Fuck live ops, fuck the SHIELD agents behind a curtain that didn’t lock (of course it didn’t lock, it was a curtain, oh god where was his head?), fuck professionalism and fuck patience. Fuck it right up the ass.

Just fuck everything.

Not like Clint had any virtue left, anyway.

Phil had exactly one split second of warning, just enough to open his eyes and begin what likely would have been a what-the-hell-are-you-doing sort of demand, before Clint covered his mouth with Clint's own lips, muffling all protest with his tongue.

Phil's hips trembled, jerked forward under Clint's palms then back, as Phil tried to figure out whether or not he and his dick were in agreement on their next move. Clint took advantage of Phil's brief confusion to tilt the odds in his dick's favor, getting his thigh up between Phil's and under the insufficient canvas pleating to find skin and warm hair and the soft warmth of Phil's balls, swinging free.

“Oh,” Clint sighed, lips still caught against Phil’s own, and then shoved his tongue down Phil’s throat before he vocalized anything else.

Eventually, Phil got the better of his own nether regions long enough to grab Clint by both shoulders and pull him away from his face by force. Clint went easily, trying not to grin too hard as he saw how quickly Phil'd gone all red-lipped and flushed-- and how utterly Clint had ruined his hair, now laced lightly with bits of straw.

"Agent Barton," Phil started, and Clint put a finger to his lips to stop him. Phil raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips around the fingertip, nearly drawing it inside. Which, if he was trying to discourage Clint, was going about it ass-backwards. Clint pulled his finger away reluctantly, shuddering at the residual tingle, held it up in a _wait_ gesture, then trailed it down to Phil's neck to his shoulder.

His second hand joined the first there, both splayed out across Phil's chest, thumbs digging into his open neck, and Phil went utterly still beneath him. Clint dipped in for a kiss, and to give himself just a moment to drink in the way they curved together, breathing nearly in tandem.

Then he fell slowly to his knees, letting his hands slide over Phil's sides, ruching Phil's kilt up as they went, till he was all the way down and smiling brightly upwards. Right at eye level, Phil was beginning to bob upwards, fully bared, definitely interested, and entirely at his mercy. Clint swallowed hard, to prevent himself from drooling.

“Can’t that wait?” Phil asked in a tight, airless voice as he watched Clint with wide eyes. “At least until there’s some privacy?”

“Nope, it’s pretty urgent,” Clint told him, grinning. He knew that voice, that rasp that told him better than actual words just how desperately Phil was clinging to the tatters of his control. Most times it meant Clint was gonna feel really good really shortly. (Unless he was hearing it in the middle of a live op, of course. Clint tried not to let those moments ruin him for the rest.) “Gonna burst if I don’t get some relief real soon. You could, uh, close your eyes if it bothers you.”

 _Really?_ said Phil's eyebrow.

 _Really_ ,Clint grinned back, and licked his lips.

After a long pause where Phil panted and Clint held still, hands pressed hard on either side of his hipbone, holding him in place by the tension of the kilt, Phil huffed a sigh.

"I trust your discretion, Barton," he said, sounding bored. Clint's own dick leapt to sudden attention within his tights. "I'll let you know if we get company."

In other words, Clint thought to himself as he readjusted his sight on his target, _take the shot_. Holy shit. Holy Saint Jack of Sparrow, patron of douchepirates, Phil’d just broken his cardinal rule. Sure they’d skirted it before (ahem), but even with all the evidence in front of him Clint had mostly thought Phil was going to push him away this time.

Phil still could, Clint realized with a start. He opened his mouth and leaned forward fast.

Gathering the tip of Phil's dick into his mouth, Clint felt a familiar sense of awe hit his chest. That first taste seemed nearly as unbelievably good every single time he got it and fuck, he needed more, needed it immediately.  Clint surged up to swallow Phil further, slicking him up with a wet tongue.

Above him Phil trembled and went stiff. His hands came down and clutched the straw to either side of him, while his hips jerked forward. His tiny _yes_ was more breathed than whispered, but Clint caught it just fine. A groan fought its way up in his throat and he shoved it back down with Phil's dick. The sun was warm on his back, the straw smelled sweet, the wood planks creaked under his knees and Phil's familiar sweat and skin smell was beginning to turn to musk, almost too heady for Clint to stand all mixed up with the rest. He bobbed down further, triumphant at how quickly Phil went from interested chub to tent-pole hard in his mouth.

Clearly he wasn’t the only one who'd maybe gotten a bit too affected by their performance earlier.

As much as he wanted to linger there with Phil stretching his lips and filling more with each passing moment, Clint figured he only had a short while before Phil's upstairs brain turned back on and he remembered where they were, so he didn't have time to dally. He pulled out all the stops-- or rather pushed in everything he could push, adjusting ‘till he’d fit all of Phil down his throat.

"C-- Barton," Phil hissed, blinking down at him helplessly. "You... careful."

Whether he was trying to warn Clint to go slower, or maybe faster, or just trying to find something innocuous for comms, Clint wasn't sure-- and didn't much care. Phil was still trying to cling on to reason, and that was absolutely not acceptable. Clint swallowed once then pulled back with a little bob-twist that he'd practiced in more than one bed, living room, storage closet, and bingo parlor back room with Phil when time was, uh, pressing. It was practically failsafe, guaranteed to pull Phil right out of his head and down where Clint could drive him over the edge fast. Sure enough there went Phil’s thighs, beginning to shake against his cheeks and shoulders. Clint attacked eagerly, dizzy with the smell of Phil and sunshine and wood, a faint buzzing in his ears and that ache in his jaw from Phil’s girth that only made it better. 

His tights had gone from pleasantly pressing to boa constrictor tight, strangling his own growing erection. Clint dealt with that problem and gave himself a pump or two underneath his tunic, timing it to his head bobs. And oh, yeah, he was so hard himself already that speed wasn't gonna be an issue for him, either. Keeping it together long enough to finish Phil off first was gonna be the bigger challenge.

Phil’s shaking increased. He tended to babble when Clint gave head, spilling out incoherent endearments, long moans, desperate pleas, and truly filthy curses, long on the blasphemy. And yet they kept on doing this-- finding themselves in positions where, to use Phil’s phrase, discretion was the better part of fucking. It was like they couldn’t help themselves.

What Clint liked best about these stolen moments, alone in a fragile, private bubble of lust with people just the other side of a too-thin door (or, in this case, a canvas curtain stirring idly in the breeze), was Phil's struggle to swallow down all that vocalization, channel it all down through his dick. Not that Phil didn’t enjoy it too-- Clint figured he could almost measure how hard Phil’d had to fight to keep quiet by the distance he achieved when he came.

In retrospect, that live ops rule had been doomed from the get-go.

Clint pulled off a half moment to loosen his jaw and admire the way Phil’s dick looked, all wet from his tongue and hard as if it’d been carved from stone, then went back to work, his own dick bobbing along in time within his fist. He’d set up a good rhythm on both ends, working himself harder and letting his sweat slick the way, trying to get them both off before someone came back or the ache in his knees went from exciting to painful, when someone said

“Oh shit” in his ear.

Phil froze.

So did Clint, his lips still wide and halfway down Phil’s shaft, his hand stilled with one thumb in the act of slicking over his head, and let Phil’s kilt slip down in the space between his nose and Phil’s pelvis to provide some pretense of cover. He looked around as best he could while his mouth was occupied-- if anyone was there, they were right behind him. Mind-blowing blow job in progress or not, Clint didn't let that happen during an op and neither did Phil.

“Say again?” Phil managed, his voice a little hoarse.

“Oh, shit shit shit,” said the voice, and now Clint recognized it-- Agent Tremayne, their point person from two booths over at the bread bowl shop. _Not_ , therefore, someone who could possibly have gotten a glimpse at him and Phil uh, relieving tension, thank _fuck._ He might actually be allowed to do this again sometime before hell froze over.

“Report, Agent,” Phil snapped. And no, Clint did not find it at _all_ hot that Phil was demanding a sitrep cool as a cucumber, as if his dick wasn’t halfway inside someone else’s mouth at that very moment.

“Uh, sir, we had, um. Agent Nguyen just came back."

Agent Nguyen was supposed to be in the van with their mark. What the fuck was going on out there, and was it too much to ask for their supposedly-bright team members to take care of it on their own so he could get back to taking care of a couple other urgent matters?

"And?" Phil said, into the awkward silence. Agent Nguyen's voice clicked on the line, yay, hooray, it was a party in Clint's ear.

"We ID’d the wrong guy," she said. "This guy's never even been near Kalamazoo, and he's like, a decade too old."

Clint sighed and let his forehead fall forward to rest on Phil’s belly-- which incidentally drove Phil right back into his throat. He swallowed reflexively.

“ _Damnit_.”

Well, at least Phil had an excuse if that one came out pretty sour, more pickle than cuke. The way Clint had started using his tongue probably wasn’t helping either, but honestly, it wasn’t like he had anything else to contribute to the conversation, and he wanted to make sure he didn't lose too much momentum. Phil clamped a hand to the back of his head, fingers threading through the hair, preparatory to pulling him off, and Clint couldn’t help his groan.

Oh, well, even if the comms were picking that up, at the moment it’d just sound like a commentary on how fucked this op had just become. And not just from the fucking currently going on behind the scenes.

“All right,” Phil huffed, his hand flexing against Clint’s neck, thumb stroking in a thoughtful manner. Clint paused. Was he gonna let them keep going? “We’ll meet for the debrief in fifteen anyway.”

 He was! Inwardly, Clint blessed whatever residual douchepirate still clung to Phil, or the influence of the kilt or whatever was making Phil so unusually lax today.

“Nothing to do until then but continue cleanup,” Phil continued, oblivious to Clint’s silent rejoicing. “Reunite the man with his maiden, Nguyen. Tell him Festival management is sorry for the inconvenience....”

"Yes sir," Nguyen said, a tad dubiously.

"... And give him some comp tickets for the beer garden or something," Phil finished. "The least the guy deserves is a drink, after all that."

Clint licked his agreement, and was rewarded with a distinct hiss and Phil’s other hand coming to join the first in his hair, his hips jerking forward. Well, hell, they might as well finish what they’d started, right? Wouldn’t want to debrief with tented kilt or anything, especially with how awkward this debrief was gonna be already. Trailing his hand off his dick and up Phil’s thigh, over the folds of kilt half-covering his face, up Phil's fine smooth shirt, over the chest hair, Clint poked his fingers into Phil’s lips. He was rewarded with a smile, a nip, and then a very wet tongue against his palm. His dick expressed its appreciation for that move, hardening back up so fast it ached.

He promptly sent his newly-slick hand back to its business, the added lubrication bringing him to the edge almost too quickly. Then he got back to work blowing Phil’s, uh, mind, too, chuckling to himself as Phil’s breath hitched and his hands shook-- he was clearly undecided whether to let Clint keep going to town on him, or to hold him in place, take control, and fuck Clint's mouth till he came.

Well goddamnit, now Clint himself was distracted. On the one hand hell _yeah_ that sounded good. But on the other, he did love having Phil at his mercy-- like he was now, every muscle in his body winding tighter and tighter as he fought to keep control, balls tightening and all tension spiraling down his dick while Clint stroked and sucked and encouraged it all to explode. Clint was surely headed that way himself; his own motions were growing more urgent and he was losing all focus except the need to get off, to get Phil off, to burrow further under that stupid, sexy kilt and feel Phil’s body hair warm against his cheeks while he--

“Sir! Sir! We’ve uh, we’ve got the right one. Headed right your way.”

 _No_.

Oh god damn every last fucking member of their team and all their commanding officers right up to Director Nicholas Fury himself, _no._ This was not happening.Clint growled, a low rumble that vibrated against Phil’s belly, heard the whisper of Phil’s answering curse.

“You sure, Agent?” Phil snapped. He didn’t stop Clint’s work, so that the end of his sentence was almost lost in a sharp intake of breath as Clint let his teeth scrape lightly on his upward dip.

“Dead certain, sir." Tremayne said. "Same hat, that was the mistake. But different guy. The right guy. He’s at your booth now, I can see him looking for someone. Uh… do we… um, what do we do?”

It was a mostly rhetorical question. They couldn’t risk taking the guy out directly; it all had to look like an unfortunate accident. The tranq dart was set to dissolve on contact, but getting close enough to stick it in him would involve showing him a face he might be able to recognize later on-- and given that the whole point was to detain and interrogate him just long enough to scare him into being stupid, then (hopefully) follow him back to his bosses, the fewer faces he saw the better. Especially since there were pretending to be a rival organization, not SHIELD at all.

Anyway, getting up close and personal to him meant getting _im_ personal with Phil, and that'd just end in disaster. If either of them stopped now, Clint was pretty sure they’d end up either exploding in sexual frustration or scaring all the patrons in the southern half of the Festival grounds with the size of their, uh, codpieces.

Clint glanced over to find out just how far the guy’d come. He couldn’t quite see round the gap in the curtain himself, but there was a mirror hanging on the post that separated the back of the booth from the front, put there for last minute costume-adjustments. In it, a stupid feathery hat bobbed in and out of sight as the guy poked around the booth-- doubtless trying out the equipment and trying to decide if he could get away with a free shot or two while the owners were away in the aftermath of the situation earlier.

Jackass, Clint thought darkly, taking advantage of a medical emergency to get in a quickie. Then he looked back down at his own situation, and nearly snorted. One long, contemplative suck later, Clint figured he had a plan. He looked up and met Phil’s eyes, all big and dark in his flushed face, full of lust and questions. Hopefully the answer in Clint's eyes was long on the “trust me” side, shorter on the “holy fuck, you’re everything” side, because while that was certainly true it wasn’t helpful in this situation.

After a moment (which Clint filled with a complicated little spiral tongue move he was still field-testing), Phil’s eyebrows did their “fine, impress me” thing, then turned to follow Clint's gaze towards the mirror.

“I have the mark in sight,” he said, back to being all calm and even. “Agent Barton will take care of the situation.”

"Agent Barton" was just removing one hand from Phil's dangerously rakish sporran and feeling around beneath the straw bales. With the other, he reached behind him and collected a discarded child’s plastic bow.  Phil gathered his kilt up where Clint had let it drop, and made a curious, incredibly hot little hitched noise in the back of his throat. Clint licked-- one last taste, right?-- and got a drop of precome for his troubles, all bitter and musky and Phil, and finally found an errant arrow beneath the bales. Perfect.

And perfect timing, too-- a last glance at the mirror showed the hat still bobbing along happily, beginning to leave the frame.

“Hey,” a voice floated in faintly from the front. “Anyone here?” The guy must be just the other side of the curtain now-- and yeah, sure enough, one hand was curled around the edge of it. Phil sucked in his breath, and Clint settled himself, took a deep breath in through his nose, found his center-- then dove down and took him deep.

And, as he did, as he stretched his mouth and filled his throat with velvety hot slickness, he reached around to circle Phil and hug his legs tight in order to fit dart-tipped arrow to bow. He nocked the arrow at the same moment he pulled back on Phil.

The guy’s head poked around the door and his eyes widened, darting straight to the spot where Clint and Phil joined, half-hidden under the folds of kilt, do not pass go, do not see anybody's faces clearly. Clint bet it was an impressive sight, because it took the guy a ridiculously long time to notice Clint aiming at him. By the time he did, the bowstring had gone _twang_.

A little plastic arrow pinged off his forehead.

Time did that cliched thing it did sometimes, where it stood totally still, and Clint's breath caught in his lungs and the air was heavy and warm and full of dust and light. Then the guy blinked, eyes crossing as he tried to look at his own head, and went over backwards, straight as a tree falling.  The soles of his feet came into view as he toppled.

Clint dropped the bow and scrambled to get his hand back on his dick because fuck, fuck, fuck, Phil _had_ grabbed Clint’s head now, just behind the ears. He was cursing nearly soundlessly, hands petting and clutching frantically as he thrust into Clint’s mouth. It hurt and it choked and it was absolutely fucking perfect and god Phil was shaking apart with this nearly supersonic little whine in his throat that Clint had never heard before.

He barely needed to swallow as Phil came, it hit so far down his throat. Clint braced himself with one hand against the straw wall and let Phil spend himself in long waves as he frantically stripped his own dick.  In no time at all he was coming too, spilling onto the scattered straw beneath Phil’s feet.

“Target down,” Agent Tremayne’s voice came distantly over the comm. Clint laughed soundlessly, shakily, more like a miniature earthquake in his ribcage than anything else.

For one long moment they clung together, Phil slowly softening in Clint’s mouth, before Phil pulled out and ran a shaky thumb over Clint's spit-slick lips.

“Good job as always, Agent Barton,” he said fondly, then straightened up and stepped away, letting his kilt fall to cover himself without paying it any mind. He was already raising his hand to his ear and beginning to bark orders as he went. “Get the clean up crew in now. Barton and I are going dark before anyone realizes we were still back here.”

“Are you all right, Agent Coulson?” Reade asked, voice nervous over the line-- and also wafting faintly from the front of the booth.

Shit, _fuck_ , company coming and there Clint was, completely unfit for it. Still on his knees with his dick hanging out-- thankfully underneath the front of his tunic-- a puddle of come cooling on the planking in front of him and his hair probably screaming sex in at least three languages and two dialects.

“Uh,” Phil said, and moved towards the curtain to intercept her, already settling back into his agently demeanor. “Yes, we're fine?”

“I mean, are you compromised?” she asked.

Phil glanced back fondly at Clint, who had pulled himself to his feet, and braced himself against the straw bales, since his knees were protesting vehemently now that he’d unlocked them. Clint bit back a shaky sort of laugh and kicked straw over the evidence of their less than SHIELD-sanctioned recent activities.

“He didn’t get a good look at our faces before he went down,” Phil drawled, his smile so wicked Clint was sure Reade could see it over the audio line. “I think we’ll be all right."

Yeah, he probably wasn't gonna recognize either of 'em unless he saw Phil's dick again-- or Clint eating a very large hot dog. Bratwurst might be closer, if still small. One of those huge pickles on a stick, maybe. While Clint was internally debating the merits of different food items as gauge-matches for Phil, the man in question had finished calming Reade down. He jerked his head, and Clint tucked himself back into his tights, pulled a wedgie out of his ass, and followed where he led.

It wasn’t until they were out of the tent, through the back of the grounds, and about to hop the festival’s tall wooden fence, that Phil turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Impressive multi-tasking back there,” he said, and Clint winked at him. “Not exactly standard operating procedure, but impressive.”

“Oh come on, boss, you didn’t have any objections at the time.”

Phil pursed his lips, like he was gonna fight that-- and finally gave up and shook his head.

“I always appreciate a chance to see you do new things with your bow,” he said. “That one was just unexpectedly…” _arousing_ , Clint supplied the rest of the sentence in his head. Clint'd always known Phil had a thing for watching him shoot, but apparently it went way deeper than that (hah). Phil seemed to realize the admission was a mistake as he said it, because he opened his mouth again to argue.

Clint kissed him quiet.

“Probably shouldn’t make it a habit, though,” Phil said when he pulled away, unwilling to be deterred. Clint thought about objecting that Phil’d started it, but couldn’t figure out a way to keep that one PG-rated for the kiddies on the comms.

“Yeah,” he said instead, scuffing one toe on the matted grass as they walked. “Probably right.”

“Although….”

Clint looked up to find Phil eyeing him speculatively.

“Although?” he asked after a minute.

“It might be a good idea to, ah, practice that shot. Again. In private. Just in case.”

“Um.” Clint swallowed hard, suddenly grateful he no longer had the refactory period of a teenager, because it was hard to leap tall fences while sporting a boner. “Yeah, I could look into that.”

His mind raced. This opened up a whole world of new ideas to explore. Would Phil object if he disrupted the security feeds on the long-distance practice range, some night soon? Possibly so. Then again, where the hell did he think they were going to “practice”? Maybe Clint could manage to re-arrange his place to get a target down the end of his hall.

Or, hell, maybe he could find a place that did work, when his lease was up. 

The possibilities were endless. Oh, god, if they got really good, maybe he could manage to ride Phil while he shot-- jesus, too bad he couldn't have done that in the circus. The crowds they would have brought in! Far better than a trick pony.

Not that he’d ever ridden a pony that way. Or even thought about it. Entirely different sort of "ride."

Luckily, Phil turned and pulled himself up the wall, kilt swinging wide as he climbed and everything beneath it on display for Clint for a glorious moment. Clint's brain derailed itself from the uncomfortable path it had been going down and wandered off into sunnier fields as he plotted ways to convince Phil to keep the wardrobe.

Just have to find the right incentive, Clint decided. He reached up and goosed Phil.

“Ack!” said Phil, and tipped over the top of the wall.

Maybe not that kind of incentive. Clint scrambled to the top himself and looked over, intending to judge his ground (and Phil’s level of anger) before making his own descent. Phil yanked him down by an ankle.

“Ow! Fuck! Damnit, Phil, that wasn’t--”

"Keep it professional, Barton," Phil groused, but his eyes were laughing at Clint as he sprawled. The voices of the agents cleaning up at the archery booth still mumbled in counterpoint through their comms.

Yeah okay, maybe it was time to pull it back together and act like Agents of SHIELD again; they'd been skirting the line there pretty damned closely. Gazing up into Phil's face, affection and frustration mingled in it, Clint found he wasn’t at all sorry.

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to both [Faeleverte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte) and to [LauraKaye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye) for taking this fic firmly in hand (ahem) while betaing and making me put it in order. This wouldn’t be half the story it is without you. Literally, I think.
> 
> Comments and kudos all greatly appreciated, obsessively re-read, and occasionally caressed. Or drop a note in my ask on [tumblr](http://kat-har.tumblr.com/).


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